August 9, 1989, Lost Coast
Humboldt County, California

To stake out our half of the beach, we scramble
silently to build a fort of orange rayon backpacks,
pink plastic tubes of sun block, towels, binoculars,

And sweat. In a ruddy brown line, elk descend the hill
claiming their shrine. Searching, nosing, nibbling,
poking, grazing in leisure of banks of watercress.

Stomping tender greens, they wade into the surf as
frothy as margarita— salty too.They lick foam—
rear back in surprise. Uncertain, a young kick,

Cycle with waves. Ponderous does stop time—
indifference. Their sluggish rumps retreat with
light— only a trace of tail.

Behind my notebook, I hide, survey— write.
Girls stalk. The does move their heads a little
sideward— their young falling back in a panic line.

With hands stretched out, interlocked, the girls
press forward. How brave they are— like their dad.
Stunned, I cannot chide them.

Caution slips out of me with shame and chill.
How our girls groan— play blinking games with elks—
unconscious breath, only the prattle of

Creek running into the sea. Is it source or receptacle
that brings back the dream? In the redwoods, I breathe
life back into a blue and slender girl, I’d left for dead.

He is back from the tide pools. I sense that sturdy bulk.
The doe and our eldest square off— nose to nose—
the doe takes a lunge— He moves too.

Astonished and jealous of the doe, I drift with dear ones—
selecting, collecting shells, rocks, and sea glass their
adorning their magic selves—

The ones they loved all along, could never lose.
Restrained, gingerly, we see Her leading her line
of elk children home.